Murtagh
by Namine3419
Summary: What happened to the young man after he left the castle and met up with the new Rider?  A story of a tortured past, opening up to knew friends and adventures.  Rating may change
1. Chapter 1

**Murtagh**

**By Namine3419**

**Chapter One: Fateful Night**

**Hello and welcome to my second Eragon story, "Murtagh". Yes, I know, Pale Hope has yet to be finished yet, correct? Well, the reason why I'm writing this is because I have serious writer's bock and need a break, lol. Anyway, I hope whoever reads this enjoys it, and I would appreciate your reviews; good or bad.**

**I do not own any of the Inheritance Trilogy characters (I wonder what would happen if I said I did?)**

**On a different not, does anyone here play a game called Guild Wars? If so, please add me so we can go kick some ass! Lol! (My name is Elaina Angrenost...yeah, I know.)**

His heart was still racing as he exited the study, his fists clenched in a blind rage. _How can he be so cruel? I'm a fool!_ Grimacing, he raced as far away from the king as he could, avoiding servants and nosy nobles along the way. His mind wondered aimlessly, the only thing directing him was the plush red carpet that lined the hallways of the massive white marble castle. The last of the sun's rays shone through the wide windows near the ceiling, a cool breeze racing down the corridor, chilling him to the bone. He had to get out of there, and he had to do it quickly.

The stairs to his room felt like an eternity to climb, and he was grateful to see the broad oak door that led to his small sanctuary. As if he were being chased, he slipped in quickly, locking the door behind him. "Murtagh?" He jumped, quickly reaching for the dagger he kept in his glove. Turning, he met brown eyes and relaxed. Tornac stood by the balcony, a worried expression on his old face. He had a gray eyebrow raised, and examined the boy that stood before him, "Are you all right? You look frightened."

"I'm fine," Murtagh replied, trying to keep his voice controlled. It wouldn't have worked anyway, and he knew it, but it was worth a try, "I'm tired and going to bed--"

"Spit it out, boy. Something's troubling you, and I know it. That look in your eye is a dead give away." The old man grinned, wrinkles showing up on his tanned face. It scared him sometimes as how Tornac could read him so well; then again the man had been around him since he was old enough to walk.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair, "I . . . think it was a mistake, joining Galbatorix and promising to help him. He's a madman! You couldn't even imagine what he asked me to do." Murtagh looked down, surprised to see his hands shaking, "But I can't disobey him, or who knows what he'll do." Frustrated, he slammed a fist against the wall, cursing. _I just had to open my big mouth, _he thought grudgingly, _and now I'm going to be responsible for the death of hundreds!_

Tornac studied him intently, then grumbled, "Yes, you did make a mistake by agreeing to help him, but we've already been through that argument. I will say this though; watch your tongue within these walls. You never know who might be listening!" His eyes softened, and a smile returned to his face, "We can go to my quarters; it's safe to talk there."

"And how is that?" He snapped, still slightly annoyed with himself.

Tornac only laughed, "None of your lip, boy. Just follow me, and take your sword." Murtagh gave him a questioning look, but he ignored it. The old man quickly rushed out of the room, darting down the hallway.

_What's he up to? _Murtagh shrugged it off; the old man probably just wanted to show him a new blade. They would spare daily, even though Murtagh had bested him since the age of seventeen. Still, they enjoyed their time together, and it was the only time he felt at peace in this blasted castle. The walls had eyes in this treacherous fortress, every corner and hallway a deadly trap. He grew wary of the assassination attempts, greedy nobles, or people that would just stare at him in either fear or utter disgust. Only growing angrier, Murtagh quickly strapped on his sword belt and followed Tornac, rushing down the stairs and following him out to the servants' quarters.

The sun had long set behind the castle walls, the night a sea of endless stars. There was no moon that night, but lanterns spaced out along the path were enough to light their way. Soldiers occasionally passed by him, saluting or bowing as was demanded, but Murtagh only grunted in response and keep going forward, his curiosity growing with each step. Fish splashing in a small pond to his right helped to calm his nerves a little, but his mind was still reeling from today's events. It was chilling to think that a man could be so deceptive, so manipulative that he wouldn't think twice in joining him. Murtagh shuddered, stopping momentarily to stare up into the sky.

"No time for your blasted daydreaming, boy. Hurry!" Tornac grabbed him by the wrist, the old man holding him in an iron grip. He jerked Murtagh forward, practically dragging him to a small shack with thatched roofing. A candle was lit inside, and Murtagh noticed that Tornac's horse was tied up outside, saddled and ready, along with his own steed. He looked at the old man quizzically, but Tornac interrupted him, "Not now, wait until we're inside!" He flung the door open, led Murtagh inside, and looked around to make sure no one had followed them.

The inside was warm and dimly lit, the dirt floor covered with sparse strands of straw. A small table and two chairs rested in the middle of the room, a wood stove in a corner. There was a door to the back, which was home to Tornac's bed and dressers, and an array of blades of all sizes hung from the wall. What surprised Murtagh the most was a hooded man standing in a dark corner to his left. Instinctively he put up his mental barriers, fear and rage swelling in his chest, making it hard to breathe. He eyed the man coldly, "Who are you?"

Tornac placed a gloved hand on his shoulder, "Calm down, he's a friend. One that's told me some very troubling news." He gestured to one of the small wooden chairs, smiling, "Now, take a seat so he can finish his tale."

Murtagh raised an eyebrow, "More? What about the half that I missed."

"Not important." His smile never left as he forced the young man to sit, then motioned for the other man to continue, "If you don't mind."

The whites of the man's eyes were clearly visible, and he stalked around Murtagh like an inquisitive predator, "Are you sure he can be trusted, Tornac? I mean, he is _his_ son."

Murtagh looked away, his eyes shielded. He was so tired of that phrase; it had cost him much heart ache. The boys his age never wanted to play with him, no adult would come near him, and it seemed he was always the butt of every cruel joke fate had ever played. Murtagh said nothing, only looking back and smiling at the stranger, "How do I know I can trust you? Men in hoods generally aren't the most trustworthy of people."

Tornac rolled his eyes, saying dryly, "Gentlemen, please; there are more pressing matters at hand. As for the trust issue, I can assure you the boy isn't loyal to _him_, and if you'd be so kind as to remove your hood, then maybe he wouldn't be so weary of you."

The stranger stiffened, and Murtagh watched him carefully. Covered hands reached up to his hood, the man muttering a string of curses as he lowered the dark leather hood. Hateful brown eyes stared down at him from an ebony face, his strong jaw line covered in a black, unkempt mustache. His head was shaven clean, and Murtagh had to stifle a laugh as he looked at the man's prominent ears. With controlled rage, he said, "Is this satisfactory, Tornac?"

"A name to seal the deal, if you please." He wore an amused grin, and a chuckle escaped Murtagh.

Crossing his arms, the man barked, "Shalev. Now, can we continue please? My being here jeopardizes not only my life, but yours as well."

A light went on in Murtagh's head, and for the first time in his life he looked at Tornac with confusion and fear. The man, whose face had once been loved as a father, was now alien to him and distant, all trust seeming to vanish within seconds. He stood quickly, the chair flying out form under him, "You're--! You're a--!"

"Alas, your quick wit has, once again, figured out things that it shouldn't," said Tornac with a sad smile. He looked the boy square in the eye, "Yes, Murtagh, I am a traitor, but to a monster with an iron fist. You must understand, I never meant to deceive you, and I certainly am not going to harm you, so if you would please sit back down--"

Disbelief flooded through his mind, making it hard to think, "Why?" He wanted to ask more, to scream it at the top of his lungs, but at the moment his shock wouldn't allow it. The man who was his first friend, who taught him the blade, who took care of him when he was ill, who was a _father _to him, was a complete and total stranger! He suddenly became very aware of how tired he was, and a wave of exhaustion took over him. Murtagh, dragging his feet, lifted the turned chair and sat, staring at both men with hungry eyes. He wanted answers, now.

Tornac sighed, his face looking older than usual, "It was never to harm you, never that. If anything it was to protect you, by your mother's request." Surprise shown on his face, and Tornac laughed, "Don't give me that look; yes, I knew your mother before she died. I was never allowed admittance into your father's castle when you were a babe, therefore making it impossible to take you when you were young."

"So, you're going to kidnap me?"

Shalev laughed this time, "In a way, yes, for reasons that will have to wait," Murtagh was about to protest when the man held up a hand, "until you're ready for them. But now back to why I am here; there is news that a new Rider has appeared. We know not if this is true, but the carrier of the egg has yet to return to her people, or Galbatorix has found their runners that would inform us otherwise. All in all, the news isn't good, and there have yet to be any signs that the rumors are true."

_Another Rider?!_ This was all happening to fast; the room was spinning. Murtagh knew not of the woman he referred to, but the egg caught his attention. He could remember still, his father in a drunken rage, babbling on about some blasted egg that he could never find. One name that was embedded into his mind, along with a few choice words his father had used to describe them, rang loud and clear in his mind. Looking up, he stated, "You're with the Varden."

Both men looked at him with surprise, then Tornac nodded, "Yes, we are. I swear boy, you and your head. Now, let Shalev finish."

Shalev looked at him once more, made sure there would be no more interruptions, then said, "Ajihad wished me to check and see if word had reached you about this yet, and of course," he glanced quickly at Murtagh, who eyed him suspiciously, "the other thing."

"This is why I brought you here, Murtagh. I can no longer stay in the castle; Galbatorix will demand that anyone who live under his roof open their minds to his probes, to prove their loyalty. I would be killed on spot, therefore unable to protect you."

"Protect me? From what?" _Save the crazy nobles that want me dead, assassins, my father's old enemies--_He laughed bitterly as the list continued.

Shalev scratched his beard, "Maybe you don't need protecting, but if you stay, then he'll find this little meeting inside your head. You'll betray us to the king, willingly or not. Now, I suggest you leave tonight, sometime soon as to avoid suspicion."

Tornac saw the fear in Murtagh's eyes, "Don't worry, we aren't going to the Varden. Not yet, at least. I have a friend in Dras Leona that will hide us until the time is right." He turned to Shalev, a grave look on his face, "As for you, my friend, you should leave now and quickly. The guard is about to change, and after that there will be no hope of escape."

They clasped hands together, and the man smiled, "I'm glad to see you alive, Tornac; you've been gone for to long." In a low voice, Murtagh barely heard, ". . .and Brom'll be happy too." Acting as if he hadn't heard them, Murtagh looked up as Shalev did, an amused grin on his face, "You may have the shell of your father, but by the stars you act like your mother. That's a compliment, if you'll take it." He winked, then quickly left from the room, his footsteps barely audible as he rounded the house.

Once he was sure Shalev was gone, Murtagh slammed a fist down on the table, causing it to shake, "What is going on?!"

Exasperated, Tornac snapped, "An escape, if that hasn't been clear enough. Now, go back to your room and get some traveling clothes. Your bow too, if you can find it in that mess. If anyone asks, I am taking you hunting for a few days, but we're leaving tonight so we can reach the city and buy supplies before dawn." His eyes softened, and there was a sadness in his voice, "I planned on telling you all of this one day, Murtagh, I really did, but--"

"Enough; I'm going." He was angered by everything in the world right now, and he didn't want to look at the old man's face. Stomping out of the hut, he slammed the door and marched back to his room, quickly stuffing things into a small pack while cursing the world. All of this was too absurd for him to process at the moment, but one thing kept repeating in his mind; his mother had asked Tornac to spirit him away. _She was with the Varden!_ Of all the people in the world that could be a traitor, he'd never thought his mother could be one. For some reason he smiled at the thought, an overwhelming desire to deny the king burned inside him. _If my mother could defy him, then so can I. I refuse to become a pawn as my father was._

Murtagh began to walk out of the room when his hand quickly shot to his neck. Cursing, he turned quickly and rushed to his side table, removing a small necklace. The charm was in the shape of a small clover, and an old yarn string ran through the top leaf. It was once his mother's; the only thing he had left of her. Quickly stashing it in his pocket, Murtagh closed the door on the small room that had become his life, never to return.

He was painfully aware of the lack of human life around the castle, even at this hour. Very few, if any, windows had the glimmer of a lantern light, and there seemed to be no soldiers patrolling the grounds or walkways atop the walls. The quiet only added to his anxiety, and something told him that things weren't as they seemed. His eyes feel on his gray warhorse, Tornac, whom he'd named after his friend because, quite frankly, he didn't know what else to call him. His saddle was already in place, and it looked as if he'd been freshly brushed. He quickly stashed his belongings into the bags, placing a hand on the animal's nose, "Are you ready for this?"

"More ready than you," Tornac, the human, was already seated on his copper mare. The animal was built for speed, its thin legs kicking nervously as it smelled Murtagh. The horse had never been fond of him. The old man looked down at him, "Saddle up; we need to hurry. Is your sword sharp?"

He saddles Tornac quickly, then trotted beside his friend, "What's the problem?"

"Just a feeling."

They rounded the final corner that would lead to the main gate when Tornac cursed. The bridge was still lowered, but surrounding it was more than half of the castle's guard, all armed with swords or spears. A chill ran down his spine as Murtagh asked, "How did they know?" He sighed, a defeated look on his face, "What now?"

"We fight, what else?" Silently he drew his sword, signaling for Murtagh to do the same. Tornac waited for a moment, then spurred his horse forward, a cry tearing from his lips. Murtagh followed suit, his sword whistling in the air. There was a surprised yelp, and the hooves of Tornac's beast came crashing down onto a man's chest, crushing him beneath the weight. His sword quickly decapitated the soldier next to him, blood dancing in the lantern light.

He hesitated, _I've sparred with half of these men._ Murtagh glanced around at some of the younger soldiers and thought that there was no way they would attack him; a small slash to his ankle woke him from his dream. He viciously tore into the young man he knew as Keith, the son of the smith that had forged the very blade used for his death. He grimaced, then became concentrated on the fight, all emotion leaving him. Three soldiers came at him with swords, all going for the legs of his horse. He cut one man in the shoulder, while another was stabbed through the heart. While his back was turned, the third man made a jab for one of his arms. Murtagh pulled his blade free just in time to block the blow, then cut off the man's head, the neck spewing out blood to make a crimson rain. _He could have easily killed me, _he raised an eyebrow, _unless the want me alive!_

To his right Tornac was fending off two spearmen, one jabbing at his ribs while the other tried to kill his horse. Neither man nor beast would be so easily thwarted, and he stabbed his assailant through the eye, the horse biting his own attacker's nose clear off. Soon the commotion had brought the attention of the castle, and there were shrieks and cries pouring out of the windows and doors. Murtagh did his best to ignore the noise, but soon it became to overpowering to just toss to the back of his mind. A particular voice made his blood grow cold. From atop the main tower, he could faintly make out the face of Galbatorix, barking commands as he pointed down at him. For a moment he thought that the king was staring straight into his eyes.

"Snap out of it, Murtagh!" Barked Tornac. He was pointing to the roof tops, which were now covered with archers. The bowmen's deadly arrows were pointed towards them, anxiously waiting to taste their blood. "Ride!" Tornac slapped the back of Murtagh's horse, and the animal took off. Before he could calm him, the old man was far behind, fighting off a few more soldiers.

Murtagh pulled hard on Tornac's saddle, shouting after the old man, "Tornac!" One of the soldiers slashed his sword quickly towards the old man's stomach. From that distance, Murtagh wasn't sure if it had hit or not, but in response Tornac brought the hilt of his blade down on the man's face, crushing his nose. He quickly dashed forward, knocking the few who stood before him to the ground. Murtagh followed, apprehension growing as arrows whizzed by his head. His eyes widened, "Look!"

Lazily Tornac's eyes rose, and he cursed; they were bringing the bridge up. He kicked his horse in the side, recklessly racing at a breakneck speed towards the bridge. Murtagh was right beside him, his sword down to his side. The bridge was almost to a sixty degree angle when they bolted out of its top, barely clearing the small stream below. Arrows chased after them in the blinding night, the horses continuing on as if being chased by a demon.

They kept this pace until they were a few miles from the castle, their horses breathing as hard as they were. Murtagh rested against Tornac's gray mane. "That. . .," he gasped, "Was. . . insane!"

Tornac laughed weakly, "Yes, it was. . ."

"Tornac?" He cried as the old man feel from his saddle, "Tornac!" Without stopping, Murtagh leapt from his horse and ran back to the old man, who was now laying face first in the dirt. There was a rich smell in the air; Murtagh knew it was blood. Carefully, he flipped Tornac over, his hand becoming soaked with red liquid. He could feel tears burning his eyes, "Oh no. . ."

Tornac looked down, then laughed, "I'm. . . not as good as I used to be. . ." He trailed off weakly, his body shaking. "Murtagh--"

"Don't talk, you need your strength." He began to rip open Tornac's shirt, removing his own cloak to use as a bandage. In the dark he could barely see, but the half moon allowed some visibility. There was a huge, gaping gash below Tornac's ribcage, blood flowing out of it like a red waterfall. The old man coughed, blood lining the tips of his lips. He cursed, rage boiling inside him as he swore to utterly destroy the one responsible for this.

Tornac saw his expression, "To late--I already killed the bastard." He sighed, then reached a blood soaked hand up to Murtagh's face, "My boy. . ."

"I said don't talk--!"

"I don't have--the time to talk again, so listen good. . .!" He closed his eyes once, "Ever since you were born, I was destined to know you. I," he paused, sucking in a painful breath, "I was supposed to kill you." He laughed bitterly, then continued, "But then Morzan was slain, and your mother, bless her heart, died after returning to you. I didn't think it was fair, for a family to suffer so much, so I decided that I would watch over you and make sure you didn't become the next Morzan."

"Don't say such things," Murtagh said, his voice cracking, "you sound like a dead man."

"No, a dying man. Dead men have no words for the living." He rubbed away a stray tear from Murtagh's face, blood streaking along its weak path. Taking another breath, he whispered, "I never thought I would grow to care for you. Like so many I was blinded by hatred for your father to make any fair judgment about your own character. However, that soon grew not to be the case, and I--" His hand fell, "I started to love you, as if you were my own son." A weak smile was on his face now, "I do not regret one second of knowing you, Murtagh; you're a good man." His voice quaked, and he tried to hold down a cry. The wound was causing him such pain, it was hard to concentrate, "Murtagh, you need to know. Do _not_ go back to the Empire! If you do, a fate much worse than death will befall you."

"Why would I go back?"

"Be--because, Murtagh, there is something in that castle that is destined for you. Something that, if brought to life, would doom all that oppose Galbatorix and doom the people of our land to an eternal life of oppression."

His eyes widened, "I'm--?!" Tornac's head nodded in confirmation. _No wonder so many wanted me dead! No, this cannot be; what would make me worthy of such a gift?_ Murtagh took Tornac's hand, squeezing it gently, "Enough talk, you need to sleep--"

"This wound pains me, and I know I shall never recover. . ." He reached down to his hip, removing a small blade. He looked at it contently, then placed it into Murtagh's hand. "It's a sin to kill one's self, so if you don't mind--"

Murtagh's eyes widened as he looked from his friend to the blade. The small weapon looked more and more evil as it rested in his hand. His voice barely above a whisper, he croaked, "Do not ask this of me. . ."

"Please, my boy, my--my son. I would rather it be you to end my life than by some painful wound or a wild beast. This pain," he cried, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth, "it pains me so. I can't think, and breathing is only becoming harder and harder. Please," his eyes were weak, "set me free."

"I--" His voice failed him, and the boy of eighteen looked at the man that had raised him. The man who he knew as a friend, mentor, father, and now a rebel. Overwhelming sadness threatened to take over him, but he firmly held the blade before his father's throat. Tears streamed freely from his eyes, though he neither felt them nor acknowledged them; he never took his eyes from Tornac's face. The old man closed his eyes, awaiting the sweet embrace of death, "Tornac?"

Tiredly, he responded, "Yes?"

"I love you too, father." A smile crept onto the old man's face, and the dagger sank into the soft skin beneath his chin. Blood sprayed into the air, soaking Murtagh's face. A scream like a rabid animal roared from his mouth, and madness threatened to drag him back to the castle and kill every soldier on the grounds. He stood, the blood dripping from his hair, when something wet fell from his eye, then another. Violent sobs forced him back to the ground, his entire form racked with endless waved of sorrow. It hurt, more than any wound he'd ever suffered. Everyone was gone. His mother, and now his dearest friend. He heard a faint clop of horse hooves, and felt Tornac's warm fur against his cheek. Sobbing openly, Murtagh drifted off to sleep, the horse watching over him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Murtagh**

**By Namine3419**

**Chapter Two: Rumors**

**Reviewers: Wow, it's been a long time since I updated. Probably because my other computer blew up...ANYWAY! I'm very happy that you all like this story, and as I said I will work on it when I have the time. Please read and review this chapter as well, and I hope you enjoy it as much as the other.****  
**

The morning was grey and hazy, the sun still low behind the distant mountains as Murtagh rose. His limbs felt stiff, his head dizzy, and for a moment he was lost and confused. That is, until he smelt the metallic odor of his own friend's blood still cracking underneath his nose, his hair meshed with the red mess. As if that wasn't testament enough to this sad realization, the corpse of the once strong man lay next to him, a shallow, lifeless thing that only held a glimmer of what Tornac used to be. Murtagh moaned, curling up into a secure ball and wanting nothing else but to lay their and sleep.

That was when he felt his horse's teeth scrape his scalp. He grunted, waving the beast away, until Tornac came back and bit him harder. The hair threatened to be plucked from his skull, and Murtagh rose with a curse, "Damned animal." Once again he rushed his hand towards the horse, only to have it caught in his mouth. The steed bit down hard. Laughing grimly, Murtagh stood, "I guess you're not just going to let me roll over and die." The horse snorted in approval, then went off to graze a few feet away.

He felt empty, cold, as if everything that once was him had been gutted and torn from his ribcage. Tornac lay, broken and lifeless at his feet, and he had no clue what to do with him. _I won't leave him; I can't. He deserves better than crow fodder. _Taking off his cloak, Murtagh bent down and gently wrapped the old man in the supple wool fabric. The once soft, beautiful green that had taken months to dye into the fabric was now faded and stained with mud and blood. A long time ago he would have been punished for its state, but now that seemed like such a trivial thing. Clicking his tongue on the roof of his mouth, Murtagh signaled to his horse and laid Tornac across the saddle; he would walk until they were farther away from the castle.

Even though they were miles away, the stench of Uru'baen drifted on the zephyrs, a smell that once would have excited him. Now it only urged him to the west, determined to avoid the city at all costs. Word traveled quickly from the castle to the city guard, and Murtagh had been asleep all through the night, unable to keep going after ending Tornac's suffering. The previous day's events seemed like some far off dream to him, as if they had happened to someone else and not him. It was absurd for him to believe that Tornac, his one and true friend, had been a spy of the Varden. He shrugged, eyeing the gray stallion that walked beside him, "You're not a traitor too, are you?"

He looked at him with soft brown eyes, then continued forward. Murtagh shook his head, "And now I'm losing my mind." _If you can say you're crazy, then you're not crazy, _said the little voice in the back of his head. A smile came unwanted to his face; who was it that had told him that? More than likely one of the old serving maids who used to talk to him when he was little, when he was still thought of as a weak and unintimidating boy who could hold a book better than a sword. That had changed quickly after the first attempt on his life. The would-be assassin had lost an ear and broke a few fingers, thanks to Murtagh's bite and a piece of his own bed. After that Tornac had taken him to the yard everyday, drilling him until whelps and blisters covered his hands.

It wasn't long before he could faintly make of the soft gurgling of the Ramr River. The sweet sound was a deceptive lie to the tempest of the cruelty of the actual thing in the raining season. He knew the river was miles away, and if he could hear it this far down, then finding a place to ford was out of the question. The sun was high in its afternoon position, and already he could see ravens circling him for the hope of a meal. Murtagh answered them with the middle of his finger, then stopped Tornac. The sweet smell of death threatened to make him retch as he reached for the body of his old master, the body stiff and unyielding as he lowered him to the ground.

Murtagh frowned, noting the flakes of dried blood that had yet to fall from his face. He had no spade to dig a hole, so his only option was a fire, and out in open that was the last thing he wanted to do. However, the hungry cries of the birds above made him pick up dried grass and place them accordingly around his old friend, and his hands were fishing around his saddlebags for flint stones. But the time he had finished making his small mound, the sun was close to the mountain's rim. The sky was dimming, and once again the thought of madness crossed his mind. Oakville, a small fishing town, was only on the other side of the river; even though it was miles away, the fire was sure to draw a few unwanted gazes. Cursing under his breath, Murtagh started making sparks, "Sorry I can't do more, old man."

It took a few moments for the blades to catch, but once they did a splendid inferno engulfed the body of the dead, and soon nothing was visible but a faint black outline. The smoke stretched long, dark claws into the pre-night air, as if it were to snatch the remaining sun away. Murtagh was saddling Tornac when the last of his master's body was eaten but the fire, and he dare not linger any longer. Digging his heels into the horse's side, he dashed forward, angling south to avoid the Ramr.

Sleep threatened to close his eyes, but Murtagh strode forward, determined not to stop until he reached the filth that was Dras Leona. Of all the places in the world he could go, that was his least favored; and it was the last place he hoped anyone would be looking for him. He'd frequently visited the dreadful city as a boy, the rotten smell and cries of agony still fresh in his mind's eye. He had been foolish enough to give an old beggar woman a few crowns, not even enough to buy a meal, when a mob of beggars and wretches came and nearly knocked him to his feet. Had it not been for the city guard, and a few of his own servants, Murtagh would've been robbed and most likely killed. Hopefully his appearance had changed enough to where they would not be so tempted to attack.

The sky was moonless, but there were no clouds. Stars twinkled down from the heavens, guiding him along as the hours passed. Deer stalked beside him, close enough to see what he was, but warily enough to stay out of arrow range. He watched them for a while, but soon lost interest as the sounds of people crossed his ears. To his left a few yards away was a small gathering of about fifteen houses, all made of brick and straw roofing. Cows and sheep grazed in the pastures beyond its borders, and sparse people littered the streets, laughing and gossiping. Murtagh envied the simplicity of their life; it was a sweet gift to be born out of the gaze of nobles. Tornac tossed his mane, whinnying hungrily. Murtagh leaned down, patting him on the neck, "Think they've heard of us yet, friend?" His own stomach was growling, and the smells of roasted pork lofted towards him from an inn's chimney. He scanned the tiny town, decided there weren't enough soldiers to hold him even if he were caught, and began to ride towards the smell.

The poorly barricaded establishment almost made him want to laugh. Small wooden sticks, fashioned as spikes, protruded from the ground as best they could, scarcely enclosing the entire town. Two guardsmen, local townsfolk form the look of it, stood guard near the entrance wearing armor fit for pigs. The first was a stalky man with no neck and a gigantic face, his many chins folding out of his collar. The second was nothing but a boy, at least three years Murtagh's junior, with arms the size of sticks. He eyed the approaching horsemen warily, as if he held a sword to his throat. Slowing Tornac, Murtagh called, "Hello sirs! Might I enter your town? I've been hunting for most of the day and need a warm bed."

The boy said nothing, but the large man stepped forward. Apparently wearing bastard steel made him bold, "Oi, and I guess you'll be tellin' me why you're all bloody and got no game?"

"Who said I was hunting for myself? Merchants pay a fine bit of coin for fine meat," he winked, "especially for all their fat lords of Uru'baen."

For a moment he thought the man would shoo him away, but a smile broke his large face, and yellow teeth shown behind his black beard, "That's for true. Lousy nobles; what good are they? Want us to agree to let them run the show, and they don't even kill their own food! Bah!" He spat, the waved him in, "Go on, rest up. There's an in at the end of this road. Tell the in keep that Harold sent you."

He nodded, "Thanks, I will."

"H-have a safe night." Squeaked the young man, watching as Murtagh entered the town.

Torches on high polls lit his way as Murtagh went down the well beaten path. Side roads curved up to little cottages, their doors and windows shut for the night. Few men playing at dice or hooting at local women littered the streets like stray dogs, their clothing shabby and dirty from the days work. From the look of it, Hollowdown Inn was the only place open, so that must've been it. It was a handsome building with stone walls and old black wooden beams. The mortar was old and burnt in some places, leaving tiny holes for rats and other animals to creep through. He pulled Tornac to a stop, dismounted, and tied him to a small hook built into the building. The horse bit his cloak before he could get to far. "Don't worry," Murtagh said, patting his nose, "you'll be safe here."

Inside the room was like heaven. Warmth from a nearby fire kissed his cheek as lightly as a maid, and the smell of freshly cooked food set his stomach into a protest. Warm laughter and petty squabbles could be heard throughout the tiny common room, and in the corner was a small counter with a homely old woman behind it. She eyed him with distaste, a look Murtagh was quite used to, and signaled for him to come closer. He shrugged, walking towards the old crone while others sat and drank their fills.

She had eyes as gray as old stone, and her face was a ruin due to pox scars. Wisps of white hair dangles loosely around her ears, her scalp clearly visible through the sparse strands atop her head. She smiled a toothless smile at him, "Welcome young sir, and what might I do for ya?"

He tried to smile back, but the woman had a revolting smell to her, "Harold sent me; said this was the finest inn in town?"

"Aye, and he'd be full of shit too, no good son of mine!" She spat in a small bowl to her left, "But none the less, we have room for you. I assume the horse is yours?" He nodded, "I'll have my stableboy take him around back; be safer their. As for you, young master, for two crowns I'll have a nice warm bed for you and a meal to boot. How's that sound?"

He slid the crone her money, "Wonderful."

The old woman picked up both pieces and bit down on them as hard as he gums would allow. Clearly satisfied, she beamed and pointed, "Why don't you make yourself comfortable over there, and let Old Nan cook you up something nice. I'll bring a hot bowl of water to your room too," she winked, "blood isn't quite as becoming as a clean face, 'specially on someone handsome as you."

He smiled uncomfortably, then went to a secluded table near the corner of the room. A few heads raised as he passed, but none made a move to talk to him; he was grateful for that. Soon a pint of beer was beside him, but all he could do was stare down into the dark liquid, his thoughts elsewhere. Where would he go now? After Dras Leona, what then? Blending into the crowd would be hard, for sure, but for how long would the king look for him? _I could fake my death. . . no, that didn't work last time._ However, the only reason he was found then was because Tornac had led the search himself. They'd found the ten-year-old in the slums of Uru'baen, breathless and naked as he played with the local children. His guardian had been furious with him, but Tornac had laughed and scolded those who had been in charge of watching him. "He's just a boy," he'd taunted, "and you're supposed to be the finest knights in Alagaesia?" The wrinkled kind face stared back at him now, a red smile across his throat as blood sprayed out of the opening. Murtagh's hands started shaking, and for a moment he almost lost himself, when he overheard someone talking.

A merchant of Teirm, by the looks of him, was sitting in the middle of a large circle of barmen, their ears his to control. He was halfway through a story, his face red with drink, ". . .a dragon! A bloody blue dragon with eyes like a demon's! They say it possessed a small boy and uses his body to speak, magic flowing from his hands like the devil himself! Some say it was him that wiped out Yazuac."

"And I suppose Urgals are kind little imps that only want to play with are children and weave with our wives?" A man to his right added, taking a huge gulp of his own drink, "I'll believe that when I see it. The only way a dragon can come back is if we turn back time, friend."

"Alright, then explain to me why the king 'imself is so worried about finding that young lad, oh, what's his name, Arron?"

"Aragon?"

"Eragon!" A small maid in the corner shouted. She was holding a small poster with a boy's face on it, "His name is Eragon, and he's the new Rider." The room exploded in laughter, "What?"

"Darlin', there ain't been no Riders since Morzan and his bloody lot. If that be a Rider out there, then a slow and painful death to him."

The girl, a small thing with straw colored hair, stomped her foot and shrieked, "No! Not Eragon! Look at his face? How can someone so handsome be so evil?"

"Looks can be deceiving. It was rumored that Morzan had been as beautiful as an angel, yet he'd sooner kill a babe then look at it. Some say that the poor wench he took to wife committed suicide 'cause she spawned the son of the devil. . ."

It was more than he could take; Murtagh stood suddenly, ignoring the dots that danced in front of his eyes. Old Nan was coming around the corner, a plate of food in her wrinkled hands. He didn't look at her, "I'm going to bed early; someone'll eat it."

She grabbed him with speed unseeming for one her age, "Sorry yougin', but you look like you haven't eaten in days." She smiled sweetly, "I'll bring it to your room." The old woman followed him, up the stairs and past a few noisy rooms, into a small hallway with a red door. He twisted the small knob with shaking fingers, to disgusted and enraged to notice it. The room was charming to say the least, with a small table to the side, a comfortable looking bed, but there was a small bell tower that rested above him. As promised, a small basin of water rested on a counter built into the wall, steam still floating above the water. The clacking of the dishes woke him from his daze, and he turned to find the old woman staring at him, "Darling, there's been something wrong with you the moment you walked into my inn." She crossed her arms, "I won't tell anyone if there's something you need to get off your back."

_If only you knew,_ he smiled, "I'm just tired, ma'am, there's no need for you to worry. Thank you for your hospitality." He watched her with cool green eyes, giving away nothing. She seemed innocent enough, but the monster in the back of his mind was keeping him tense. If rumor of something so idiotic can reach as far as this small town, then his own freedom might well be on the line as well. She gave him nothing back, only a sad smile.

As she turned, she said, "You know, it isn't wise to keep everything locked up. My son, not that fool at the gate, but my first son died with a heart full of regret." She left him then, the door clinking ominously.

Slowly, practically dragging his feet, Murtagh walked to the basin, removed his gloves, and dipped his hands into the warm water. It was scolding hot, but he liked the heat; it made him feel clean. A small rage rested to his side, and he dipped it in the water, quickly bringing it up to his face. The warmth washed over him, relaxing his face and making him feel more at peace. He washed for a full five minutes, the water a red mess, his hair sticking to his face. Cool water ran down his back, soaking his shirt. Murtagh pulled it off and placed it on the windowsill, dirt and dust falling to the ground as the wind blew. Then he noticed how much his legs were burning, and how heavy his eyes felt. To tired to eat, Murtagh walked towards the tiny bed in the middle of the room, welcoming the straw mattress and tattered blanket.

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

Murtagh woke suddenly with a cold sweat covering his skin. A deep sense of dread filled him, a feeling he knew all to well. The lights from candles had all flickered out, and it was close to dawn; the world was nothing but a black void. The only sound was that of his horse trumpeting in the stables, something that Tornac rarely did; something was horribly wrong.

As if on cue, there came a horrible shriek from below. A woman's cry, full of fear and pain, along with terrifying clinking noises. Murtagh cursed, leaping out of bed. _How did they find me so quickly?_ He hurried around the room, quickly throwing on his shirt and strapping on his swordbelt, feeling slightly bolder with the cold steel hanging at his hip. Slowly, he walked to his door, opening it as quietly as possible.

There were voices; three of them. Two sounded as though death itself were talking, but the third was that of the old woman. She was weeping, her words slurred and hard to understand. There was a loud crash, a scream, and then she stammered, ". . .I don't know. . .!"

"Do not lie to ussss," there was a sickening slapping sound, and a man cried out. A chorus of harsh laughter followed, "It would be, mosst unfortunate for your ssson."

Murtagh bit his lip; the Ra'zac had found him. _They're trying to protect me,_ a cold pit formed in his stomach; this had to stop. There were more cries from the people downstairs, which covered his footfalls. In the dark, Murtagh groped helplessly for a lantern or something to distract the monsters downstairs. He reached out a blind hand towards the wall, trying to find a line that would connect a small oil lantern to the ceiling. Suddenly his foot came into contact with an invisible table, and whatever was on top of it came crashing down to the floor. He stopped breathing.

"What wasss that?" There was a series of clicks, and then all was quiet.

"T-t-that would be one of our customers, please!" The old woman cried, "They mean no harm! This man you look for; he ain't here!" There was a sickening sound that Murtagh knew only to well; the sound of flesh being impaled by steel. A long gasping noise quickly followed, and Murtagh knew the woman was dead.

"M-mum?" The guard, Harold, gave a wordless cry of agony, then he too fell silent against a blade.

For a long time there were no sounds, and Murtagh thought this was all just a horrible dream. However, two gigantic thuds on the deck ahead of him snapped him out of his wish. There was a low hissing noise, and a smell like sick death. Fear threatened to paralyze him, his feet unable to move. _Move! _He jerked at his legs; useless. _Move! MOVE!_ Sweat drenched his hair to his face, stinging his eyes. The Ra'zac, a shadow amongst shadows, crept closer and closer with the arrogance of victory. It reached out a warped hand to grab him. . .

Biting down on his lip, hard enough to draw blood, Murtagh snapped himself out of the miasma and drew his hand-and-a-half sword. The blade whistled as it cut into the wrist of the Ra'zac, the beast howling with pain as his hand left his body. Without thinking, Murtagh dashed past it, his ears seeming to hear more than they normally would. Along with his own heartbeat, he could distinctly make out the breathing of the other Ra'zac, and hear the howling of the other. It was amazing what adrenaline could do.

Something landed behind him as he reached the stairs. The Ra'zac shrieked, a sound that disoriented him momentarily, but long enough to give the demon an advantage. Something heavy landed on his back, and Murtagh felt himself falling forward, cursing as the stairs came rushing up to met him. He didn't know when he hit the ground, or if he actually made contact, for his world was swirling by him as the shrieks continued. Deep burning sensations flared up his back and arms, and he felt his sleeves grow wet. The world stopped spinning, and he lay on the floor dazed and confused.

His sword; where was his sword? He'd lost the damn sword! Murtagh rose to his feet, wobbling, fighting against the darkness to see the small sheen of his bastard sword. It lay a few feet away from him, stuck in some crack in the floor, but the Ra'zac was closer. Yellow orbs watched him, daring him to go for the blade. The other Ra'zac was at the top of the stairs now, his breath coming in haggard gasps. Murtagh could feel the effects of their poison crawling up his skin and making his spine tingle. Fear would be the death of him. As quick as a cat, he reached down into his left boot and pulled his hunting knife from the leather sheath. The blade went sailing towards the Ra'zac near his sword, striking him in the shoulder. Murtagh rushed forward, yanked his sword free, and grabbed for the knife.

The Ra'zac would have grabbed his wrist in return, had it not been a bleeding mess. The creature shrieked in pain and anger, chasing after him with inhuman speed. Murtagh bolted for the door, or what was left of it; the once oaken doorway had been blasted apart, the splinters littering the floor. Why was it that he had not heard any of this? The reason became quite clear as he left the inn.

The town was littered with the dead bodies of her people. Children were thrown from bedroom windows, some impaled on broken glass or stakes. Women and men died in each other's arms, some with the horrible burns of Seithr Oil covering their bodies. Houses were burned and broken, a ruin of what once had been a happy community. _The bell,_ he thought, still rushing down the street. He just noticed it now, but the bell must have been ringing the entire time, hiding the village's cry. There was a sudden rush of wind, and a black mass landed a few feet away from him, black blood dripping down upon him as if flew over. The Ra'zac howled, pointing a decrepit finger at him, "You will go no farther, Morzan ssspawn!"

Skidding to a halt, Murtagh brought his blade up, ready for anything. The other Ra'zac soon joined his friend, "You'll pay dearly for my hand, boy!"

Smirking, Murtagh said, "You'll have to catch me first." Confused, the Ra'zac watched him warily, expecting him to bolt once more. He clicked his tongue, and in an instant Tornac was racing towards him, full speed. Murtagh ran to his side, leapt, and grabbed the saddle while the Ra'zac jumped out of the way. Climbing on as best he could (Tornac was bouncing him enough to make his teeth rattle), Murtagh slung one leg over the side of the beast, while strapping the other in the saddle. On his horse, Murtagh was untouchable, invincible. No one could catch him once he and Tornac took flight. _That's how it's always been, _he thought, laughing as the frustrated cries of the Ra'zac echoed in the distance.

Even though they were a good distance from the town, Murtagh did not slow. Tornac was in a constant gallop, froth gathering around his mouth, but Murtagh feared to slow. Dawn had broken hours ago, dew still glistening on the autumn field. There were scarcely any trees around for shelter, and he avoided the Ramr all together. He was making for Dras Leona, avoiding roads and other outposts that would be looking for him. It would be a game, he decided; the deadliest game of cat and mouse he'd ever play.


End file.
